


Binding Rage

by hellkitty



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-09
Updated: 2010-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-08 20:04:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/79038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for prompt: Vortex/Onslaught codependency.</p><p>Vortex realizes Onslaught's rages are becoming...problematic. For all of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Binding Rage

Title: Binding Rage

Author: antepathy/hellkitty

Fandom: Transformers, G1

Prompt: Vortex/Onslaught  codependency.

Rating: PG-13

A/N: In researching codependency for this fic, what clicked to me was an observation that the behaviors often arise from a group, such as a family, feeling that they have something they must collude to keep hidden from others. 

 

Onslaught’s furies were wonders to behold .  Forces of nature, like hurricanes or tsunamis.  When he strode into battle, wading into combat with the supreme confidence that no weapon would dare damage him, he was unstoppable, awesome in its original sense.  Every thing and every one with a sense of survival got the frag out of his way.  His rages then were magnificent.

They were not so magnificent in close quarters. As Brawl was currently learning. Vortex stood by, shutting the hell up.  He’d learned what was good for him. And sticking his neck out, period, wasn’t.  Especially not sticking it out for Brawl.  He tried, as a decent teammate, to at least quash the flood of gratitude that it was Brawl, and not he, who was the target this time. 

Brawl grunted as his back turret struck against the bulkhead.  Onslaught stepped between him and the light, cutting a dark shadow, through which his visor burned. “You,” he said, and his voice was a cold as space, “obviously need more guidance.”

“Commander,” Brawl said, blindly propitiating. Not, Vortex thought, that he knew what that word meant.  But he knew all about rolling over and baring his throat.  He also, sadly, wasn’t smart enough to know that it wouldn’t do much good.  “It won’t happen again!” His vocalizer crackled as energon dripped onto it from a split hose.  He wiped it absently, smearing his fingers with slick pink. 

Brawl…probably deserved this.  Vortex couldn’t say. He’d learned early on to leave the decisions to Onslaught.  That had been his lesson: that he could not be trusted. His ideas were never good enough.  His actions were just disappointments with a lot of energy and flash around them.  Still…the fighting was disturbing.  Someone could come by. Someone could see. 

“Onslaught.” 

Onslaught’s visored  head revolved to where Vortex stood in the doorway.  This, Vortex thought, had to be handled carefully.  Suggest too obviously that he is out of control, that Brawl has had enough, and you redouble his rage.  Be smarter than that.  For once. 

Onslaught reached over with one hand, palm open. Waiting…for the…datapad. Slag.  Stupid idea.  Vortex glared at Brawl—last time I do anything to help you, he snarled to himself.

“I…uh forgot the datapad.”

“You…forgot.”  Onslaught turned his head, looking up at him.  “You come all this way wailing about them needing this. And you forgot the report.”

“Yeah.” Onslaught thought he was an idiot. There was no avoiding that judgment.  Frag, he WAS an idiot. Just not for what Onslaught thought.  Let Brawl think his own way out next time.  Whoof. That would be ugly.  Brawl + think. 

“Brawl,” Onslaught said, smoothly, “we shall continue our discussion later. For now, assign yourself to the Armory and clean weapons until I comm you again.”  Brawl shook himself off and hurried out the door, trying not to look as relieved as he was.  For once not stupid enough to voice a complaint. 

Vortex felt the weight of Onslaught’s anger settle on him like a blanket of fire.  “Some kind of trick?” Onslaught asked, his voice quiet. Almost inaudible. 

“No.” 

“Don’t lie to me, Vortex.” Onslaught stood up from where he’d bent over the console to get the data Vortex didn’t really need.  His palms lay flat on the console. 

“I’m not lying.  Why would I?” 

Onslaught sighed. “You’ve had some…difficulties with the truth in the past, yes?” His visor held Vortex’s steadily.  Yeah, so…Vortex had a sort of bad-boyfriend relationship with the truth.  So?  There were times when one had higher priorities than serving some silly ideal. That often didn’t pan out very well. 

Like now. 

Last fraggin’ time he expended vocalizer charge for Brawl. That was for slaggin’ sure.  “Look,” Vortex said. “Brawl got the point.”

The visor tilted, dangerously. “And you’re qualified to judge.”

“Onslaught,” Vortex began. He tried to hide the fact he was checking his back vector for the door. Let no one see.  Let no one walk by. “It’s just that…well.  You get a little…off focus sometimes.”

Onslaught laughed. It was a harsh sound with no mirth in it.  “I. Am getting lectured. About focus. By you.”

Vortex stiffened, more hurt than if Onslaught had struck him.  “I…I know when it’s too far.”

“Really.” Onslaught’s contempt withered any retort Vortex might have come up with.  Onslaught approached him, purposely stepping into Vortex’s space.  He tilted his head, studying Vortex, his expression unreadable behind mask and visor. Vortex quivered with tension. He’d learned to be acutely sensitive of emotions, to read Onslaught’s every nuance.  He could feel that hot rage that had been aimed at Brawl turned cold, as if flash-chilled, and aimed at him like blades of ice.  He raised his optics steadfastly to Onslaught’s, aware that his mouth, behind his battlemask, was trembling with tension. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Onslaught could see the trembling—more, that Onslaught was enjoying it.

“Do you,” Onslaught said, his voice chalky and reasonable, “have any other leadership advice you’d care to share?”

“This isn’t a leadership thing,” Vortex said, forcing his voice. “You know I don’t question that.”

“Do I?”

Vortex’s vocalizer crackled online to respond but…the words seemed sucked right back.  He knew—could already hear—the list of things Onslaught could throw in his face. Wouldn’t—wouldn’t actually say a word. Didn’t have to. 

“And is there a reason you care so much about Brawl?” Onslaught turned his head away, the corner of his visor aimed at Vortex.  The effect was chilling.  Not worth direct optical contact.  Deliberate insult, the kind Onslaught knew Vortex hated.  Almost as much as the insinuation.

“I don’t,” Vortex said, his voice thin from the strain.  Onslaught’s private rages were becoming more and more frequent and with higher and higher amplitudes.  It was only a matter of time before someone outside the gestalt found out.  And Onslaught would not deserve the consequences.

Onslaught was a great leader.  And while he would hardly lower himself to be Vortex’s ‘friend’, Vortex had an almost aching admiration for him. He was ruthless and competent and took care of his team…except for this one tiny flaw.  Which wasn’t even really a flaw so much as just, like, a superabundance of all the qualities that made him respectable: aggression, competence, the ability to find the weakest point and attack it with surgical precision. As he was doing right now. 

This wasn’t a flaw. Onslaught had standards—high standards—and his team ought to measure up.  Not his fault that they let him down so much, brought this, forced this out of him. 

 And Vortex knew he probably deserved the swipes Onslaught was aiming his way.  For getting involved, or for other things. Vortex’s decision making—as Onslaught had told him countless times—was flawed. But he knew enough that if others found out…they would think less of Onslaught.  The Combaticons would be laughingstocks like the Stunticons, squirming in pathetic fear, cowed by their leader.  At most, Onslaught could lose his command.  Then they all would lose…everything.  Back to the prison, for all Vortex knew.  This was…freedom. Of sorts.

 That could NOT happen.  Not only for Onslaught’s sake, but for his own.  The gestalt would collapse.  Vortex didn’t think he—or the others—could bear the pitying or contemptuous gazes of the other Decepticons if they were to discover what Onslaught was truly like. What they had endured from their own commander.  That THEY couldn’t handle it themselves.

Vortex could handle it. In fact, he could take it all onto himself if need be. Be the one, the only, who had to keep the secret, because he was the only one who would do that much for Onslaught. 

He looked up, narrowing his visor’s optical field  in what he hoped was a sneer.  “I do think you’re letting operational efficiency suffer to whet your private vendettas.” He felt his tanks swirl at his audacity.  Courage, he told himself as Onslaught turned his full face, and the full weight of his visor’s stare, onto Vortex.  The visor dipped and raised, as if scanning Vortex for physical defects. Or, more likely, weak points.  Vortex tried not to brace himself too obviously.

He couldn’t have braced himself against the blow that came, almost from underneath him, Onslaught’s fist rising up along the centerline of his body, catching him squarely on the chin.  His battlemask jammed upward, cracking against his cheek plates, spiderwebbing his visor.  The action snapped his head back against his collar armor, his jaw biting up on a cry of pain. No. This was what he wanted.  He wanted to take all of this onto, into himself.  Not to spare Blast Off or Brawl or Swindle (especially not Swindle), but to keep this between them, just Vortex and Onslaught. Intimate. Special. 

And he knew Onslaught wanted resistance, which Brawl hadn’t been giving him. He felt a frisson of something like pleasure that he was the one, and no one else, who could read Onslaught that way. Vortex swung his offside hand—Onslaught would be expecting the other—into a solid haymaker that collided solidly with Onslaught’s audio.  The commander grunted, hydraulically hissing in pain. He stepped back a klik, as if considering his next move.  “That better have been your best shot,” Onslaught said, quietly.

Vortex took his cue. He closed the distance between them, his fists launching into a solid jab and uppercut combination.  Onslaught took the first blow to his chassis, but as Vortex dropped his weight to get under the uppercut, Onslaught took advantage of his changing center of gravity and swung a heavy blow at his shoulder, knocking him over, following through by dropping his wrist under to grab one of Vortex’s rotors as he went down. 

Vortex howled in pain, twisting desperately, trying to find a way to relieve the pressure against the rotor blade’s mount, his systems still shocked from the fall.  Onslaught planted a knee in his back, pulling up on the rotor as if it were a rein. Vortex’s hands scrabbled uselessly on the floor, swatting helplessly against Onslaught’s ankle.  Onslaught spoke, his voice neutral, unreadable. “Is this a ‘personal vendetta’?” 

“No.” He felt a fierce joy in his systems as Onslaught responded, mixing with a taut anticipation verging on fear. He was bringing this on himself. He was placing himself squarely in Onslaught’s reticle. Dangerous yet…powerful.  He could do this. He could be what Onslaught needed. Only him. No one else. 

“Shall I make it one?”

Vortex was torn—without being able to see Onslaught, it was hard to read his body language.  Did Onslaught want him to escalate?  He tried to push into his body, to feel Onslaught, as if he could read through their dermal contact. “No?” he guessed. 

Onslaught grunted. “Why do you think you have a right to an opinion?” He twisted the rotors.

“You…asked!” He still couldn’t tell if it was the wrong answer. He had to let go. Have faith that whatever he said, Onslaught would be able to turn it to what he wanted.  What he needed to siphon the anger. He’d felt it chill, he hoped he was feeling it drain. Before anyone knew. Before anyone found out.  What happened to Vortex himself...didn’t matter.

 “Uhhh.” Both of their heads jerked up at the sound from the door.  Slaggin’ Brawl, Vortex cursed,  left the door unsecured. Scavenger stood in the doorway.  He looked a cross between stunned and embarrassed. “Mixmaster sent me to get the tactical scans.” He dropped his optics. “Probably interrupting something.” 

  

  1. Vortex knew better: could feel the door slam shut but he could still hear the rage snapping and crackling like an electrical halo around Onslaught. 
  



Vortex pushed to his knees, then, slowly to his feet as Onslaught crossed back to the console, pulling up the most recent battle’s data and loading it onto an input rod. 

Scavenger sidled over to him. “You—you okay?”

Vortex tried to curl his mouth in disdain, even though it was hidden by his damaged mask.  Energon dripped from the battered rim of his mask and onto his chest armor.  “Fine,” he said, coldly. 

“You didn’t have that damage after the battle,” Scavenger whispered. 

Vortex stared him down through his cracked visor. “Yes I did.”

“But, then…what…?” He was stopped from his verbal fumbling (thank Primus!) by Onslaught thrusting the input rod into his hands. Scavenger was so startled he nearly dropped it, and had to scramble to catch it before it fell, sensing, somehow, that clumsiness would not go over well in front of the Combaticon leader.

“He was just…showing me an advanced grappling maneuver when you interrupted.” Vortex tried to glare at the interruption part, hoping to forestall any questioning. It wasn’t—completely—a lie.  It was a grappling move. It just wasn’t a demonstration. 

“Oh. Uh. Oh.  Okay.”

“Will there be anything else?” Onslaught managed to sound coldly impatient. 

“No. Uh. Sorry for interrupting.”  Scavenger dashed out, his green and purple limbs almost blurring with haste.

Onslaught turned back to Vortex, his hands on his hips.  Vortex stood up straighter.  He could feel—through that exquisite sensitivity he had picked up after all these many, many vorns with Onslaught—that Onslaught knew.  That Onslaught knew what he was doing, trying to do, and approved.  Onslaught gave 110% of himself to everything.  And Onslaught was right to have high expectations of him, of the team. It was hardly Onslaught’s fault that they struggled to meet them.  It only made sense that they would disappoint, and Onslaught would take their failures personally. Take their lesser commitments as an affront.  Try to make them see, feel, know the intensity at which he did everything.  Planned, considered, hated, loved.

No one else could see this as clearly as Vortex could.  No one could be what he needed. No one else was willing to, brave enough to, put themselves here under the white fury of Onslaught’s rage,  the range of his violence.  Vortex could. Vortex wanted to.  The others had let him down, but Vortex could keep the secret, all to himself. Onslaught’s secret, and his own.

But Vortex would do better. 

 

 

 


End file.
